


Thank You for Participating in the Department of the Navy’s Long-Range Silent Partnered Communication Program

by siegeofangels



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Soul Bond, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-18 18:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16522283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siegeofangels/pseuds/siegeofangels
Summary: Brad realizes: it’s not Ray. Ray’s sleeping. Brad’s manifesting a fucking spontaneous bond with someone in the middle of a fucking mission.





	Thank You for Participating in the Department of the Navy’s Long-Range Silent Partnered Communication Program

The first indication that something is off is the startlingly vivid porn that pops into Brad’s brain just as he lies down in his grave. It’s weird-ass porn too, some being-held-down shit, hands in his hair. Ray’s mental images of choice, Brad knows, points pretty much straight down the road of tits, ass, pussy. 

This fantasy, Brad picks up as the hands push the head down toward a hard cock, is pretty much zero percent straight. 

“Ray,” he barks. “Block that shit, I’m trying to sleep here. What are you, fucking new?” One of the first things they learned was blocking private thoughts. He pushes a mental image into their bond: frozen mountains and cold ocean water, the mental equivalent of throwing ice water at Ray. 

????? he gets back from Ray. It’s sleepy and cranky, with an undercurrent of the Ray-sense Brad always feels through their bond. 

The porn plays on, though, and Brad says out loud, “Ah, fuck,” as he realizes: it’s not Ray. Ray’s sleeping. Brad’s manifesting a fucking spontaneous bond with someone in the middle of a fucking mission. And whoever it is is _new_ at this. 

He sends an apology to Ray, a bit of guilt and warmth with a side of you-and-me-together, and gets back a mental grunt. Back to sleep. 

Brad considers, and then sighs and gets up and makes his way over to where Trombley is on watch. He picks up the radio.

“This is Hitman Two-one Alpha, be advised, a member of Two-One is picking up an SPC push from unidentified sender. Source, be aware you’re casting private thoughts.” 

Brad feels a very distinct flash of horror cut off the porn before the bond fizzles to static and then silence.

“Much appreciated, source,” Brad says, and goes back to sleep. 

***

In the morning, once they’re moving, Ray brings it up, because of course Ray brings it up. 

“It’s like the whole company shit their pants at the same time,” he crows, banging the steering wheel. “Iceman watching you jerk off, fucking terrifying.” 

“But you're bonded,” Reporter says. 

“Yeah, but we can fucking block, you learn that shit in BRC. Brad doesn’t see shit unless I want him to.” 

“Thank God,” Brad mutters.

“And you?” 

“Ehh,” Ray says, see-sawing his hand. “I pick stuff up sometimes if guys aren’t blocking, you know, like shit tunes in and out. I tested high for Recon but not high enough for Psy. Wouldn’t want to be part of fucking Psy anyway, sitting around thinking at people.” 

“So if it wasn’t Ray you heard, who was it?” 

Brad wishes for a firefight, not for the first time. If someone popped up from over the next berm and let loose then maybe Reporter would shut up. 

“Someone drank the Kool-Aid but didn’t bond before we stepped off, is all,” Brad says. 

It’s not that simple. Brad’s already bonded. This isn’t supposed to happen. 

It's also not supposed to happen that a new bond is that strong. With Ray, they'd practiced for weeks to be able to send something as nuanced as a picture. It's difficult. Much easier to communicate in feelings and save the complicated stuff for battle. 

The new guy, though--if Brad’s able to pick up porn that detailed this early in their bond? This is potentially game-changing and he has to pursue it, even if being double-bonded or whatever brings a bunch of shit down onto his head. 

***

He brings it up at the next team leader meeting. 

“Anybody else pick up the SPC last night, or am I special?” he asks, and gets a chorus of noes. 

“Most of the men were asleep,” Fick says. 

“Well,” says Brad, trying to stay calm, “either I fucking spontaneously double-bonded with someone or somebody in this company can’t control a strong cast. One option gets us smoked when he gives us away and the other gets me turfed into Psy.” 

His emotions are probably spilling over into the bond. The bonds. Ray sends back a little push of encouragement, a little “you got this.” Nothing from the other guy, whoever it is. 

“Nobody’s getting turfed into Psy,” Fick says firmly. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone reported anything. If that’s all? Dismissed.” 

Brad hangs back as the other team leads head off. “Sir,” he says. “If it is a strong caster . . . “ 

Fick hesitates, looks down, looks up, very visibly steels himself, and looks Brad in the eye. “It’s not,” he says. “My solo scores aren’t that high.” 

And Brad feels him open the bond, just a little, enough to send a mental picture of Fick’s long-fingered hands opening the letter with his bond test scores. The picture is surrounded by a whole mess of emotions--worry and fear and something else Brad can’t quite make out--before Fick shuts the channel down. 

“I assure you that nothing like last night will happen again,” Fick says. “And nothing needs to be made official until the mission is over. For now, we focus on our current orders.” 

Brad nods. “Sir,” he says. 

Fick takes another deep breath and turns those wide green eyes on him. “I understand this may affect your bond with Corporal Person,” he says. “Brief him on the situation as you see fit.” 

Brad nods again, and searches his mind for the bond between him and the LT. It’s there, next to the one he shares with Ray, a strong tether. Brad sends _gratitude_ , and can see it on Fick’s face how it hits him. It’s almost too private to see, and Brad looks away. 

“We’ll work on the bond later,” Fick says. “For now, get some sleep.” 

“Aye-aye, sir,” Brad says, and walks away. 

***

It's not like Nate really gets downtime, but he manages to find a moment when only Mike and himself are in earshot--Mike is balls deep in paperwork--and says, “Mike, I bonded.” 

“Shit, all right,” Mike says. “We can probably trade the kids for whoever it is, we got enough wiggle room. Who is it?” 

Nate looks out over the dusty horizon. He speaks clearly and carefully when he says, “Colbert.” 

Mike lets out a low whistle. Nate gets it. Bondmates are best utilized on the same team but they can't very well pull their best team lead from up front to hang out the back of the command vehicle. And Nate would make a crappy addition to 2-1A. 

“There's nothing we can do about this until we get to Baghdad,” Nate says. “I just wanted to make you aware of the situation.” 

“Cementing the bond could come in handy,” Mike points out. 

And it's true; if they can refine their bond into the kind of mental link that allows for seamless instantaneous mental communication . . . well, that's why the Corps even gave Nate that little cup of link juice. 

On the other hand, a bond is about emotions at its core. And Nate has found himself with some unexpected feelings for Colbert. 

“I'll take that under advisement,” Nate says, and shuts the fuck up. 

***

Brad stares at the miles of sand and scrub and pushes a ? in Ray’s direction. He gets back the feeling of a radio handset wedged under his ear. Ray’s listening. 

He sends: clasped hands, a thumb on his radio button, drinking the link juice way back when. He sends: the LT, standing next to him. 

“Holy shit,” Ray says out loud. 

Brad wishes he could spare a hand to hit him with. “Shut up, Ray.” 

“What?” Rolling Stone says, alarmed. 

“Nothing,” Brad says. 

Ray says, “Bond shit.” 

They roll on, silently but for the radio chatter, but mentally Ray is sending a million things a minute: surprise, laughter, threesome porn. And then, almost like he can’t help it: Brad-and-Ray. ?????

Come on. They’re already bonded, the base of a sleek Recon team in Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever the US decides to blow up next. A spontaneous field bond with an officer isn’t going to change that. Brad pushes that the best he can, and Ray settles. 

“Still,” Ray says. “You’re gonna have to tell me about the porn.” 

“I am not telling you about the porn,” Brad says. 

***

Cementing a potential bond isn't easy in a war zone, but then again neither is any of this. If they don't work to solidify the bond, they're more likely to have rogue thoughts shooting through. And they're too busy for that shit.

Proximity is the key, with a preference for actual skin contact. It isn't easy in thirty pounds of gear, but there are ways. 

During team meetings Brad listens with one hand on his rifle and the other on the back of Nate’s neck. When rounds charming through the air make them all take cover behind a berm, Nate finds Brad and lies down with him, pressing together all the way down. Their rare down time is spent with their Kevlar off, sitting with their dirty faces leaning in to each other. 

Stafford and Christeson are keeping watch for them, just like their brother marines did for them when they cemented their bond at Mathilda. Nate lets himself close his eyes. He's essentially cuddling with his best team leader. He'd be embarrassed, but he lost the ability somewhere along the line. Probably he'd shit it out in front of someone. 

Brad smells good. He shouldn't smell good, none of them smell good, but Nate is so fucking gone. He tries not to let the despair into the bond but some must escape, because Brad pushes back a wave of solid reassurance, the kind of surety that Nate’s only capable of when he's talking to his men. 

“Are you trying to moto me?” he says into Brad's skin. 

“Never, sir,” Brad replies, humor in his voice, and sends him something that tastes like apple pie and looks like a bald eagle crapping an air strike. 

It's perfect and ridiculous, and Nate smiles despite himself. He is so fucked here. 

Behind them, the kids are rapping Nelly, joyfully chanting as the sun goes down. 

***

They leave the bond open as they roll up to the bridge; Brad sinks down into calm and muscle memory in combat, and an extra dose can only help Ray focus under the overstimulation of the ephedra. And it’s helpful to be able to see what Ray’s seeing through his NVGs. It would be more helpful if it could have kept them from getting stuck, though. 

And then--

“There are men in the trees,” Brad says, and everything opens up. 

The world is laser sights and muzzle flashes; it’s flying brass and shouting, and in the middle of it his _other fucking bond_ pops open, and he can feel Fick’s preternatural calm in the midst of the chaos even as Fick’s brain kicks into high gear looking for a solution. 

He also gets the undercurrent of the LT’s feelings for them all. It’s always there under whatever else the LT is thinking--Brad has come to just think of it as _second platoon_ \--and Brad finds himself leaning on it, letting the sense of absolute trust settle him as they unfuck themselves.

_Second platoon, second platoon_ , the LT is feeling as they retreat to a safe zone, and Brad realizes it’s love. 

***

Brad is trying to sleep through the fucking rockets’ red glare when Fick pushes a request toward him; it’s the first intentional bond communication he’s sent since the bridge ambush. It’s both an order and a peace offering, so Brad gets up and follows the mental map through the factory, a maze of concrete steps and baffling hallways. 

When he gets there, the LT is pacing in a tiny room with half his gear piled in a corner. “I know you’re serious about cementing the bond,” he says, “but there are some things you should know.” 

There’s fear leaking through the bond. It makes Brad want to push reassurance back, but he really has no idea how this is going to go. He settles for taking off his Kevlar and headset and setting them down, letting himself be bareheaded and vulnerable.

“Sir, are you all right?” Brad says.

“I have feelings for you,” Fick says without preamble. 

Brad's mind goes !!!!! 

He can tell some of the shock leaks over into the bond, because the LT flinches. 

“I--” Brad says. “I. Sir.” 

“Exactly,” Fick says. “There's also a good chance I'll be resigning my commission when once this deployment is over.” 

“Sir,” Brad says again. 

“Given these circumstances, I'm sure you agree that it's best to let the bond lapse.” 

Brad can't make himself meet Fick’s eyes. “Sir,” he says, nodding, and turns and walks away. 

***

“You fucking _walked away_?” 

Brad has no idea how Ray got the drop on him and managed to corner him in this godforsaken cigarette factory, much less drag out of him what the LT had said, but here Ray is, lying in the dust with his face in his hands, bemoaning Brad's life choices. 

Ray sits up. “Let me get this straight. You spontaneously bonded with the only person that you've ever had anything good to say about, he told you he fucking loved you, and instead of jumping on him and having freaky gay feedback loop bond sex you _fucking walked away_.” 

Brad pushes an image of tits through the bond. 

Ray snorts. “You'd be gay for the LT, I bet,” he says. “And don’t give me shit about fraternization, you know that Martinez and Scott bonded last year and no one said shit.” 

Brad sits down next to Ray. 

“As your bondmate,” Ray says, and pushes sincerity through the bond, “I am telling you to go for it.” 

Brad sits for a minute and thinks about it, about Fick, about the possibility of him-and-Fick, about connecting to his incredible mind and heart, about touching his body. “You really think we’d be good together?” he asks. 

Ray pushes him an image of Brad and Fick, their heads bent together, talking, smiling. “I think you’d be fucking terrifying together,” he says. 

***

Nate is walking back from yet another information-free meeting when Brad falls into step beside him. He’s radiating calm but Nate still tenses. 

He’d been avoiding Brad, as much it’s possible to avoid someone who you’re psychically linked to. He’s sure Brad noticed. 

“When we get back to Pendleton,” Brad says, “I think we should talk.” 

_Please_ , he thinks; he has no idea if it slipped into the bond. 

“About what, Sergeant?” Nate says, letting his voice go clipped and tense.

Brad pushes a series of images through the bond: surfing; two beer bottles clinking in a toast; the two of them, meeting in a kiss. 

Nate nearly trips over nothing. Brad’s hand is already there to catch his arm and steady him. 

“About the future, sir,” Brad says lightly, and smiles. 

Nate allows himself exactly ten minutes to think about it that night, closes his eyes and lets himself wonder what it would be like to date this beautiful, dangerous being. It might not last, he knows that, it might go up in flames. But he knows how to handle explosives. 

_Hope?_ he sends through the bond, and gets back _reassurance_ , a warm solid feeling. 

And the thing is, it feels right, it feels like his decision to join the Corps, like the feeling in his gut that’s pulling him toward leaving. So. Here he goes. He sends Brad an image of a traffic light lit up green, and gets _happy anticipation happy_ in return.


End file.
